


awake with wolf teeth

by duets



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Solas, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, backstory of sorts, elven pantheon shenanigans, solas is the saddest lil egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duets/pseuds/duets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>solas, and the many ways to be asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	awake with wolf teeth

They said the wolf used to lie alone and scared between the Beyond and the _dirth_ , a dying star, incapable of reaching eternal sleep and simmering with death--until on one of the first nights the All Mother took notice of its agony, and in her infinite grace decided to reach out, pulled it down from heaven and swallowed its light. The wolf is the smoke Mythal breathed out, they said, the shadow to the dragon mother’s fire, capable of taking any form.

 _You_ remember darkness and running with legs that should have been too tired to stand, days with your eyes open against empty whiteness. They say you were born formless, weight and flesh of no importance--but you remember blood seeping down to your nose, breath coming ragged, making your ribs hurt; you remember snarling at the smallest sounds, paws stumbling on pebbles, nails catching on your face, half mad with fever. You remember a hand to the nape of your neck, remember her voice whispering, _You are safe, now, da’len_ , remember closing your eyes against thick, salty dampness, your tongue dry in your mouth.

You remember the rustle of wings and magic coursing through yours until you were nothing you could recall being before, until all of you made so much sense you couldn't help but question it, the pieces too close to make up a picture you believed in.

Mythal had said, _Open your eyes, my friend,_ her thumb stroking between your brows, your crusted blood marring her skin. _Wake up_ , she had said, and you remember wondering what would have happened then if she hadn't made it sound like you had the choice to refuse.

 

 

 

 

You had yawned your way to the city, hands to Mythal’s neck, her soft laughter shaking you from where you were perched on her back, making sleep easy and impossible all at once.

You were young then, as they all were, but already feared for the years you still had ahead of you, feared for what you would do with the time you were given. When she brought you to him, Elgar’nan had bristled with barely contained rage, his snake tongue moving too quick around his words for your tired ears to understand what he was saying, staring down at you from his throne without blinking. You knew even then that it would always be Mythal between you and the Sun Father’s teeth to your throat.

 _Put the blade down, my light_ , she had said to him, and you could see her smirking profile from where you were clinging to her clothes. _Or_ , she had started, teeth all bared, hand to your head, _are you so insecure you wish to show your might by striking down a child?_

It had been half warning, half challenge, and Elgar’nan, curious, had yielded and you had been allowed to stay. You had not been able to sleep for three whole days, his eyes seeming to follow you everywhere.

 

 

 

 

_“Do you smell?”_

They had crawled into your room in the middle of the night, soft footsteps that you would not have been able to hear had you not been so wary of this new place, so exhausted. The girl’s hair had looked like fire, a mess of curls that was there before the rest of her arrived, and under candlelight and to your sleepy eyes her freckles had shone like stars.

The taller boy beside her looked very sombre and very unamused. You could relate.

_“Andruil!”_

_“They are a wolf, are they not? Do you smell of wet dog?”_   You shook your head. _“That is good, that you seem to bathe. But say,”_ and here her voice took a very serious tone, making you straighten up, ready to fight or flee, waiting for the stone to drop. _“...Do you hunt?”_

The tall boy with black eyes had stormed off after that, mumbling angrily to himself about insufferable children. The girl stayed, waiting for your answer.

 _“I could,”_   you replied, careful, making sure to look her in the eyes.

Her smile was so wide it had made your own cheeks hurt.

 

 

 

The spirits all whispered of you after that-- _mi’nadas_ , they used to say, wary of your eyes, for the wolf was a double edged knife, bringer of blood, the inevitable bad omen even then, the beast haunting the moon. The People did not know any better, but what they theorised did not fall very far from the truth: When Mythal’s light was dimmed and her reflection turned into void, _you_ were the one she brought forward to strike from the darkness.

They said you walked among the Forgotten and the Creators with ease: they never mentioned how there was very little space between those two.

Your fur was grey when she had called for you for the first time, your back straight as an arrow, pride in knowing you belonged. _Asha’ghilan'eth_  you had called her in those days, smirk almost as swift as her own, but the unbridled affection still sweeping up. You used to bow, whisper  _lethal'bel’ara,_ and she smiled, her teeth sharp and eyes shining, knowing more about you than you had ever been, every one of your actions laid clear for her eyes only to see. You hated her for it, loved her and envied her knowledge.

You had been just learning to keep your hands always behind your back, not hiding your weapons as much as drawing pleasure from seeing others shake with fear of not knowing how you would strike next.

 _“Da’len,_ ” she had said, all-knowing smirk barely there, subtlety you would never be able to replicate. _“I have a job for you.”_

 

 

 

The mind is a trickster of its own, yours more than anyone else’s, and there are times when your eyes close and you recall more than just blood and shouting matches, the angry whispers of _where did she send you to this time, wolf_ ,  remember more than weeks and weeks waiting awake in the shadows, ready to strike. There are times when you remember what you should not, have no right to, anymore--snow and Sylaise nursing you back from a fever. _Wake up, little wolf, don’t be so lazy._

You sleep and your mind is a betrayer, makes you believe you are awake.

 

 

 

 

_"I am not asleep."_

_“Are you sure of that?”_

You didn’t bother to even pause your reading. _“Yes. I am.”_

A hum, then a pause that stretched for long enough that for a second you had been almost convinced she had dropped the subject.

You had never been that lucky.

 _“If you will not tell me what Mythal wanted-- Then."_  She took a deep breath. You knew where this way going. Where it had been returning to for the past several _years._   _"Let your hair grow, lethallen. Like ours.”_

You sighed from behind your book. You should not ask, you knew Andruil made very little sense when she wanted to pet someone-- and _yet_.

You had not _yet_ known how to curb your curiosity.

 _“How are those even remotely--"_ No. Wrong question.  _"What for?”_

 _“So that she may pull at your braids with more ease,”_ Dirthamen had laughed, Andruil turning to glare at him.

You did not get any reading done that day.

 

 

 

 

You had asked Mythal about it only once.

 _They don’t trust me anymore_ , you had said, young and shaking, your masks all ripped out, desperation bruising your mouth from the inside, making your voice sound slurred, swollen with sorrow. _Why do you wish for me to keep doing this?_

She had frowned at you, mouth downturned, and you almost preferred her cruel laugh to this. _“Knowing that is not your role to play, da’len.”_

She had dismissed you, and you had gone to find answers on your own.

 

 

 

You clawed your way out of your gilded leash, curious and ignorant and proud, and when you finally _saw_ it was almost too late. The People were ravenous and refused to be anything but alive, and you--you were blind. The People starved and your belly was full. You had played dead for too long.

 

 

 

You had asked her, voice trembling, _Asha'melan,_   _how far do your branches go?_ When you looked at her head on, the smile she gave you was daring and amused, all teeth, lazy like a sated lion, and she had never looked more like the Huntress's mold than at that moment.  _Da'len,_ she said, and it sounded mocking and it rang final, and you were angry at her and furious at yourself and _them,_ and oh, you were so very much afraid. _First,_  she said, voice clear as the day you first met, _you must ask yourself: H_ _ow far can you see?_

 

 

 

 _Lasa,_ you told your mind, Fade bound for weeks, Wisdom's presence shadowed almost completely by your own anger, the unsheathed blade of it making you bleed.  _Lasa,_ you told your mind, the command sharp, the need to act sour like spoiled wine on your tongue-- _allow it,_ you demanded of yourself, and you had always been obedient when you so wished.

 

 

 

Your mind was yours.

Your body was borrowed time.

 

 

 

Lying down on your stomach, Dirthamen’s hands braiding your hair slowly, carefully, the air heavy with the scent of ripe fruit, Falon’Din just on the edge of your vision, a silent shadow watching. Andruil’s red hair flowing out and never seeming to catch her mouth, Ghilan’nain a pale wisp of a thing beside her, eyes always wary. The sound of Sylaise yelling at June as he flung himself at her still wet from the river, and the gentleness of Dirthamen humming off-tune at your back, fingers nimble on your scalp, making your eyelids feel heavy.

 _“Sleep, da’fen.”_ Dirthamen’s voice, amused. He was not ordering, just softly suggesting, but still you fell to slumber as if Mythal herself had asked you to. You slept, washed in warmth: the comfort in knowing you could, in being sure you would not wake up alone.

You loved them all then, when you were all young and with hands unbound, but your mind is a nightmare well tuned, the truth of it all a reflection of yourself, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

 

 

 

 

 _“I trust you to do what needs to be done when the time comes, da’than,”_ Mythal had said, her hands covering yours, gripping tight enough to hurt. Andruil had been missing for weeks, Ghilan’nain's ashes marking her furious face, and the bark of the tree had still made your back burn, Anaris’s laughter echoing in everything you did, a warning.

Mythal said _trust_ like she meant _fate_ , your feet bound and no way to chew through the ropes, paws stumbling on themselves once again. _Hare’ghilan_ , she had called, and you were as hopeless as her sorrow warriors, just as incapable of running away. You wanted to run, but she said _not yet_ , and you cowered, tail curled between your legs.

You rebelled against your own need not to rebel, and your lungs were heavy, your own voice whispering _fool, fool wolf_.

 

 

 

 

You go to sleep, after, body curled, the _in between_ unforgiving and uncaring, cold like your mind knows you deserve. 

You go to sleep and a small, young part of you prays that you do not wake.

 

 

 

 

They say the wolf howled for Mythal night upon night after she vanished, say it screamed until the very stars cowered away from the wolf’s agony, until the sky itself started looking like an impression of the Void, infinite and empty and silent. They say the wolf howled until its throat stopped feeling its own, made a new world out of this one's fabric so its misery could echo everywhere.

It howled with its voice heavy with sorrow, misplaced guilt felt much too late, _realised_ much too late. Dirthamen's black eyes shining with mirth, a joke only the two of them understood, Andruil's laughter before it got jagged, torn to pieces. The wolf howls and the moon is impassive, ruthless, holds no compassion, no history the wolf knows. The wolf changes shape and none of them is right, becomes a thousand within one and still misses them all too much. The wolf is whoever they need it to be, and that was comfort once.

 

 

 

 

*

*

*

There is something in this body that makes them trust you and you want to keep whatever it is for a while longer, if only it meant it will keep Lavellan looking up at you and smirking, small and secretive, their hand finding yours without you realising it, flush creeping up to your ears.

_"You're the one who started with--"_

_"I did no such thing!"_

You smile despite yourself. Keep doing it to Varric's self-professed endless amusement. Lavellan is not yours but you are very much theirs, owe them too much already to feign still belonging only to yourself. There is a novelty in not being heard but being _engaged_ that leaves you breathless, stumbling on the Trade tongue you were supposed to have been born into. They coax words out of you until you are left barren and hungry, until you want not to rest, but to  _wake up_ and learn more, their questions like honey to your dry throat. They say _do you have a moment,_ wicked or formal or everything else in between, and you doubt there is a world where you are able to ignore that simple request.

 _Shut up, lethallin,_ they say, and you laugh, move out of the reach of their swatting hand, rearrange the pieces on the board as if you don't know how this game ends.

You are doomed, yes--but then again, when have you _ever_ not been?

 

 

 

 

You learn new ways to love them that don’t leave you lying at every turn: it's calculated omission, selfishness the kind of which you haven’t touched in a long while. You learn to say _emma lath_ in as many tongues as you can: the touch of your hand to their forehead to brush off hair, a barrier up and ready without them having to ask, warm milk sweetened with roasted Antivan fruit, and their lips to yours, eyes heavy and hands lazy with sleep, your mouth to their neck, making them squirm and laugh, crying _Fenedhis, you fucking ass_ as they push you away, cheeks reddened, only to grab you by your necklace not a blink after, and pull you closer still. 

They sleep in your arms unguarded, body curled around yours, trusting. You think to yourself _ma’arlath_ , your chest heavy, mouth dry like you have just woken up from a too long slumber. They doze off listening to you talk, _tell me boring stories to sleep_ , and you are overwhelmed with this love of yours, say _arlath ma_ in a way that means _I_ and _am_ and _you are_.

You learn to love them in a way that makes you careless, makes you not care if you are. _Vhenan_ , you say, rolling your eyes when they jump straight from the library to your desk, your papers scattered everywhere, their feet pushing you away from trying to reorganise them, pushing you just enough that they can scoot over and claim your lap as a cushion for the afternoon. _Vhenan’ara_ , you whisper, numb with gratefulness, nose to their neck when they return from rescuing missing soldiers, missing ram, missing children, battered and bloody but alive, but there. _My heart_ , you groan, displeased, when they try to shake you awake too early for your liking, laughter echoing everywhere, making you throw the blankets over you both, clutch them to your chest like you can stay there forever. You learn to love them in so many different ways you are overwhelmed with it, this friendship they give you like your hands are clean and deserving.

 _You fool_ , you can almost hear Dirthamen say, _fool, fool beast. Leashed and relishing it._ But they call for you, say, _Solas_ , _my pride_ , like it is something cherished, _ma’lath, shut up about the Veil for once_ , and your face hurts from too many smiles bitten down. _Ensnared by a bear trap and still smiling, you fool._ But still they call, and still you go, fool that you are.

 

 

 

 

 _The bow is an extension of the hunter,_ Andruil used to say, _the knives our own nails sharpened to strike. I am what they are._ You had envied her strength then, the clarity and unwavering spirit of it--she was focused and ruthless in a way so careful and honed she made it look as if she had not put a single ounce of thought behind it.

 _My weapon is me, da’fen_ , she had said, _there is no separating us_ , but you were young still, had only snorted at what you saw as unnecessary fatalism, a penchant for overflowing metaphor.

It took you a while, but now you understood.

They turn to you mid battle, someplace between after they had pinned you to their balcony’s window and still before the well, their hair matted with blood, hand half raised to strike in force, eyes beckoning you closer--and you move behind them without a word, without hesitation. They mouth a _thank you, lethallin_ your way, already turning back to your target of the moment, and you pause before striking again, think--too little, too late as is your way--that _if introductions are to be had, I am your tool._

 

 

 

 

They say, _G_ _o to sleep, lethallin,_ rolling their eyes at you. You stare at them, and they look back, unimpressed, beloved, _Is there Something on my face, perhaps,_ lips curling at their own joke. You look at them, the curve of their nose and the way their eyes blink slowly to fight sleep, _You have been awake since the Plains. It's time to close your eyes, ma’lath_ , they urge, voice serious, heavy with concern. You shake your head and they sigh, curl closer to your body until their breath is to your chest, making your own breathing easier. They are very warm, and you do not know what to do with these hands. _Do you want Me to tell you a boring story to sleep for once?_ they ask, a kiss to the hollow of your throat. You hum something that might be a yes, and so they say, _Then close your eyes_.

 _You are safe now_ , they whisper later, hand to your waist, stretching out to kiss your forehead before nuzzling closer and falling asleep, head tucked under your chin. Your eyes are closed and you think, holding them as carefully as you know how, _let me stay awake a little longer_.

 

 

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> tried to keep this as gender neutral as possible, for both solas and the inquis. my personal egg headcanon goes that he is more of a genderfluid character, mystique-ish almost. and not a straight cis white bro because, really, bioware? really, now.
> 
> grain of salt elven glossary (some of it made up because all the cool kids are doing it these days, watch me, tolkien):
> 
>  **dirth** = knowledge, here meaning more the earth, or elvhenan as a whole, considering that according to lore the people were gifted knowledge by dirthamen.  
>  **da'len** = child, little one, but used in some instances here to impart distance between the speaker and who is being spoken to.  
>  **mi'nadas** = mi (blade) and nadas (invevitable), meaning fen'harel was the sort of angel of vengeance (mythal's very own gabriel archangel lmao?) that one always expected to come (and do the gods' dirty jobs) and who was respected, but feared all the same  
>  **asha’ghilan'eth** = the one who guides to safety, fen'harel's lil respectful endearment for mythal. asha (woman), ghilan (guide) an (place) eth (safety)  
>  **lethal'bel’ara** = another endearment of sorts. friend who leads to many journeys. lethal (kin) bel (many) ara(journey)  
>  **Asha'melan** = asha (woman) melan (protector), the most formal of fen'harel's nicknames for mythal  
>  **lethallen** = kinsperson  
>  **da'fen** = little wolf  
>  **da'than** = little tool  
>  **harel'ghilan** = our bringer of fear, or trickster rebellion, depending on who you ask. ghilan (guide) har (fear) el (maybe "our" as in eluvian "place that is ours alone") harel (trick, deceive)
> 
> (great many thanks to katiebour's [elven guide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/359253?view_full_work=true) and the [elven language page](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language) @ the da wiki. all mistakes in phrase construction and grammar are mea culpa, mythal grant me forgiveness.)


End file.
